Disclaimer: I do not own Holes
All my life I never really was wanted. My mom said she and dad hooked up in a bar somewhere in Vegas, so I was always treated as a disgrace. They couldn't care less about me. Even if I was dying or something, they would probably say: "Oh…Tori's dying…..that's nice…." And go back to watching TV and drinking whiskey.
Both my parents have done drugs, smoked, and drank all their lives. When I was little I would pour whiskey from a glass pitcher for my mom. At five years old, I was my parents' bartender and cigarette lighter.
They didn't really care much when I was arrested either.
It wasn't my fault I was arrested, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Apparently someone framed me for being a cocaine dealer, and the police went to my house to investigate. I forgot that sometimes my mom used my sock drawer for storing some crack, and when the police found it, only one word ran through my mind:
Busted.
The judge said I could go to jail or to Camp Green Lake. Of course I chose Green Lake. It couldn't be much worse than jail, could it?
Boy, was I wrong.
So now here I am, handcuffed to a seat on a hot bus and all I could see was desert land. Everywhere. And then I started seeing holes. Millions of holes everywhere. What kind of camp is this?